


(Un)Gilding the Lily

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Always Female Stiles Stilinski, Bisexual Erica Reyes, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, F/F, F/M, Insecure Erica Reyes, Miscommunication, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, vaginal glitterbombs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: Peter chuckles. “Before you work yourself up any further over the kitty glitter, why don’t we just ask our darling Erica why she bought it? Knowing her, it was probably some sort of gag gift or practical joke.”She pauses because that—that is a fair point, actually. And it sounds exactly like something Erica would do.





	(Un)Gilding the Lily

**Author's Note:**

> Of course I joined this party and I wrote a thing. How could I not? 
> 
> Happy Friday! *throws a handful of glitter in the air, away from any vaginas*

 

Stiles stares at the Amazon box and wonders what, exactly, was purchased. And by whom. Because she doesn’t remember ordering anything, and she didn’t get drunk in the last ten days (what? Like you’ve never done it?), and Peter hasn’t nagged her about checking the mail and answering the door, so he definitely didn’t order anything.

It’s not until after she’s opened it and stared blankly into its hellish depths that she double-checks the name on the label and sees “E. Reyes”, which. Yeah, that—actually just raises more questions than it answers.

“Peter!” she hollers, because this? This is a situation that demands raised voices, werewolf hearing be damned. She’s pretty sure _Peter’s_ gonna blow a gasket when he sees this shit anyway.

Sure enough, he comes down the hall rolling his eyes. “I _know_ you know you could’ve whispered and I would’ve heard you, so what’s whipped you into a froth now?”

She’s still so stunned by the cursed thing in the box that she blurts, “Glitterbombs.”

He quirks an eyebrow and gives her a deadpan, “Really.”

And just—“No, Peter, you don’t understand. This isn’t some third-grade prank glitterbomb, this is a case of ‘Satan and Barbie had a pink, glittery baby’.”

He’s still not getting it. “Stiles, darling, I think you’re—”

“ _VAGINAL GLITTER_!”

He blinks slowly. “I beg your pardon?”

She pulls the packet out of the box and chucks it at his head. He catches it before it makes contact, because werewolf reflexes. “I shit you not, Erica ordered a goddamn clitterbomb, for some unknowable reason.”

He turns the package over in his hands, and his lips twist into a sneer. “It gets worse.”

Stiles rubs her eyes. “Of course it fucking does, why would the horror stop at sparkletwat?”

Peter snorts. “I mean. The fact that this exists is bad enough, but did you look at the ingredients list?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “And, honestly? I’m scared to know. Tell me anyway.”

He tosses it back to her, and she bobbles the catch, but manages to keep it from hitting the ground. “The glitter’s made of sugar.”

She has to take a deep breath before she can reply to that. “So you’re telling me that not only did someone think my vag needs an interior designer, this fuckin’ genius decided that _sugar_ was a good thing to add to the ecosystem?”

“To be fair, I doubt whoever designed this really thought it through. The claims on the packaging are a mess.”

She skims through them. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Jesus, is this meant to spare your panties from ‘corrosion’, whatever that means, or is it a stupid sex thing? Because the marketing department should make up their mind.”

Peter chuckles. “Before you work yourself up any further over the kitty glitter, why don’t we just ask our darling Erica why she bought it? Knowing her, it was probably some sort of gag gift or practical joke.”

She pauses because that—that is a fair point, actually. And it sounds exactly like something Erica would do. So she grunts, and pulls out her phone to text their she-wolf. She doesn’t get an answer, but given that the woman in question walks in not five minutes later, it was probably because she was on her way here already.

Peter greets her with a peck on the cheek, and subtly scents her by running his hand up her bare arm. “Hello, darling.”

Erica grins. “Hey yourself.”

And Stiles—well. She’s left feeling really, really fucking awkward. Because Peter might want to play shit cool, but that’s never been her strong suit. Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it—Erica notices her unease, and the darkly-lined eyes take in the open box on the table. “Stiles? You okay? You’re looking a little,” she trails off, gesturing at her own face.

“I’m just really confused, and not sure what to think. This showed up today,” Stiles rests a hand on the box, “and I didn’t realize until after I’d opened it that it was actually addressed to you. And I’m definitely not upset at you sending your packages here, but I am pretty, uh.”

“Apoplectic?” Peter suggests.

She glares at him, and Erica looks between the two of them like it’s a tennis match. “ _Concerned_ ,” she corrects, “about what it was that got shipped. Was it, like, a gag gift? Or . . .?” she trails off, not sure how to be tactful when she wants to punch God in the face over the fact that she’s holding a package of vaginal glitterbombs.

Erica, however, brightens up. “Oh, cool! It showed up!”

Stiles takes a deep breath and counts to ten, and before she can speak, Peter cuts in. “Sweetheart, you weren’t planning on using that, were you?”

And, well. Erica? She falters. She tries to hide the way her face falls and her body stiffens, but Stiles doesn’t need werewolf super-senses to know that something is up. So she softens her tone, plays Good Cop the way her dad taught her years ago. “Hey, honey? We’re not mad or upset, okay? I’m just worried, because this?” She holds up the package containing the glitter pills and gives it a little shake. “This isn’t safe. This is risking micro-tears, and pain, and probably a yeast infection. Maybe also a UTI. Probably definitely an STI if you used it with someone who isn’t a werewolf. And none of those are things I’d ever wish on someone I care about.”

Erica’s shoulders slump, and she lets Peter tuck her against his side. It makes her seem smaller, somehow. “I mean, yeah, I get what you’re saying. I just—I figured, if it worked, it’d be worth it? And like. I’m a werewolf now, so I figured I wouldn’t have to worry about those things.”

“If what worked, sweetheart?” Peter murmurs.

Stiles sees the way Erica curls in on herself, and has half a second to feel her stomach drop before her girlfriend mutters, “If it got me into bed with you two.”

And that just. Stiles needs a minute. She stumbles backward and collapses onto the couch, wondering what in the actual fuck is going on. Somewhere in between counting her fingers to check if this is a dream and wondering if she somehow slid into a different timeline, she registers Peter’s hand rubbing slow circles on her back as he mutters soothing nonsense.

She shakes her head, because now is not the time to lose the plot, and looks up to see Erica perched on the coffee table across from her. She reaches out and takes one of Erica’s hands, as much to ground herself as for the connection. “Okay, I just. Clearly I’ve missed something, so can you please walk me through what’s going on in your head? What made you think you needed a gimmick to get into bed with us?”

Erica gives a disbelieving huff. “Maybe because you’ve never expressed an interest in having me there?”

Which. _What_? “Erica, you said at the beginning that you wanted to take things slow, because you’d never done the poly thing before. We were trying to respect your boundaries.”

The look she gets is deadpan. “Uh huh. And how many times do I have to express interest before either of you gets a clue?”

She turns to Peter, hoping he can make sense of this. “Did she say something to you when I wasn’t around? Did I miss something?”

But he’s shaking his head slowly before she’s even finished asking. “No, never. I would’ve told you if she had, would’ve made sure all three of us sat down and talked about it.”

So she turns back to their girlfriend, confused. Erica sighs. “The time I mentioned that I was wearing the good lingerie?” She looks at Peter. “The time I sat in your lap, and you got hard?” She turns back to Stiles. “The time I suggested joining you in the shower?”

Stiles throws her hands up and gets up to pace. She can’t believe this shit. “None of that was ever _clear_ , Eri! I thought it was just flirting, that you were teasing! Working up to getting comfortable with the both of us!”

Erica’s spine straightens like she’s been jolted. “Wait. You didn’t realize?”

“You never _said_!”

“I think what my darling means,” Peter says smoothly, “is that we were waiting for verbal permission from you before taking any steps forward. You said you wanted to go slow, and that meant letting you set the pace.”

Erica’s brow furrows. “But, I mean—couldn’t you smell that I was interested? That I wanted you both?”

It’s not an aspect Stiles had considered, so she stops pacing. Peter nods. “Of course I could. But emotions don’t necessarily translate into action, and lust isn’t the same as consent.”

“Oh.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I thought that maybe you just—didn’t want me that way?”

Stiles’s jaw drops, because the sheer number of times she’s wanted to climb their third like a tree and Peter’d had to hold her back is ridiculous. “What? How—why would you think that?”

Erica shrugs one shoulder, eyes on the floor, and Stiles is suddenly reminded of the girl who spent years as a wallflower because of epilepsy and teenage cruelty. “You two were still having sex,” she mumbles.

At that, a bolt of panic shoots through Stiles’s guts, and she turns to Peter, who—boyfriend extraordinaire that he is—grips her wrist and strokes his thumb over her pulse. It’s soothing. She turns back to Erica, who’s watching them both wistfully, and can’t be anything but honest. “I just—Peter and I have been together for years. Were we not supposed to? Did you want us to wait? I don’t. I didn’t think we were doing anything wrong?”

Peter tugs her closer and stands, pulling her to his chest. “We didn’t, sweetheart. But, from the outside, it probably didn’t look good, that we were being intimate and excluding her, when it was something she wanted. Which,” he turns and gives their girlfriend a pointed look, “it is something you want, yes?”

Erica swallows. “Yeah. I keep smelling it on you, afterwards, the traces—I know you shower, which I guess was to be polite, but just. I want to _know_.” She stands up and joins them, eyes glowing as she traces her fingers across Stiles’s skin. “Wanna know the rhythm your heart pounds in as you come, whether you’ll curse or beg, what your sweat tastes like when you’re desperate.”

“Jesus,” she whispers, her nerve endings lighting up with want, responding to the hunger in Eri’s burnt-gold eyes.

“And me?” Peter asks, because of course he does.

Candy-apple red lips twist into an odd half-smile. “You. You’re the wild card in all this, you know? Because I know how you are with her,” and there it is again, that longing, “but it wouldn’t be the same with us, would it?”

Peter smirks, but it’s soft, and he dips his chin. “No, it wouldn’t. Your heart wouldn’t race at being my plaything, letting me take control and do what I want with it.”

Is this dirty talk? Does this count as dirty talk? Stiles doesn’t know, but her panties are starting to feel a bit damp anyway. The look Erica throws her lets her know that her wolves are aware of it.

Erica reaches for Peter, but she’s hesitant where she was sure with Stiles. Her palm glides carefully up his arm, stopping at the shoulder. “I’m interested in you, but it’s not the same. I want to know if you’re as good as you think you are, want to figure out how we’d work, that way.”

Peter unwraps one arm from around her to loop around Erica’s waist, pulling her in with them. “I’m certainly open to exploring that, if you are. No gilding of your proverbial lily required.”

Erica snorts, but her expression is serious when she asks, “Stiles?”

It warms her heart, the way Erica’s asking her explicitly now, and she silently promises to ask more questions about this, about them, so that they can avoid any future miscommunication clusterfucks. “Yeah, I’d like that,” she husks. “Been getting pretty impatient, actually.”

Erica smirks, and presses closer to whisper in her ear. “That so?”

Peter chuckles. “Mhm.” He reaches down and squeezes her ass, pushing her against Erica’s chest. “She’s been dying to get under you, spread out and begging for whatever you’ll give her.”

Erica gives a little snarl, eyes lighting up, but it’s hungry rather than aggressive, and Stiles can’t help but moan. Peter, enabling asshole that he is, goes on. “Personally, I’m hoping you’ll strap her.”

Erica’s head snaps around to look at him. “What?”

“Think about it,” he murmurs, shifting so that he’s behind Stiles, can plant his hands on her hips and rock them against Erica’s in a mimicry of what he _knows_ she wants, because they’ve talked about this. “Having her wet and wanting under you, squirming as she takes your cock.” He pauses for a moment. “Only if you’re interested, of course.”

“Only if I’m—? Of course I want that,” Erica rasps. “But I don’t have a harness.”

He tuts, but it’s playful. “Well, how about this then—we head into the bedroom, and Stiles and I will show you our favourite site to order goodies from, and we’ll pick out something together. And then,” his voice drops into a purr as he snakes one hand up to cup her throat, taking her weight as she melts against his chest, “I can show you the best way to take her apart. Deal?”

“Deal,” Erica breathes, and Stiles is suddenly grateful for the pussy prettifiers for getting them all on the same page.

(Though she maintains that that shit is the lovechild of craft herpes and _literal_ herpes and, in a sane world, would've never seen the light of day, or dark of cunt. There is a tenth circle of hell, and it’s reserved for the creator of homemade cunt cosmetics.)

(She’s already thinking about who to prank with it.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Some euphemisms for the vag glitter/use thereof that didn’t make it into the fic: candy crotch, fanny frosting, unicorn hooha, be-glittered box, fairy fuck, pelvic pestilence, glitterpuss, downstairs delights, sugared plum, shimmering rose, ‘gyna gems, twinkletwat, pussy pearls, star-spangled snatch, cosmic cooch, sparkling sweetmeat, inner starry night, twinkle tail, periwinkle puss, starlight snatch, celestial coochie, pocket full of starshine, clam glam, Hollywood hooha, sparkling peach, sparkle sauce, Aphrodite’s additive, bare wear, lower lip gloss, sex pollen, thigh candy, splendourloin, honeyed suckles, pussy polish, everlasting knob-stopper, pearlescent pussy putty, clit glitz, labia ma-glorious, magic carpet, horror hole, diva dust . . . 
> 
> Feel free to add your own in the comments!


End file.
